


Parallel Lines:  No

by Ruth_Devero



Series: Parallel Lines [2]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-30
Updated: 2010-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:38:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruth_Devero/pseuds/Ruth_Devero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes what makes the difference is a word.</p><p>(For questions about format, see note for "Parallel Lines:  Yes."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parallel Lines:  No

**Sometimes what makes the difference is a word.**

“No,” he said. “No. It wasn’t my—not my fault. The gauges were—god, everything was— She gave me the wrong coordinates.”

**Struck suddenly with terror at what he had just said.**

Because it didn’t seem to matter that it was a lie. Except—well, maybe not a lie. Surely not a lie, because Tom Paris was a pilot first class; Tom Paris was a natural—born in a docking bay and teethed on an o-ring, that kind of natural—or so his father told him; and if a shuttle flailed apart under Paris’s piloting, shed bits of itself as it did a dreadful cartwheel across the landing field at Caldik Prime, why it must be someone else’s fault.

Except that Paris knew it wasn’t. It was his fault; he’d killed them; he’d lied about it; they were dead because of him. And he’d lied to save his own ass.

The kindly face of the commanding officer who welcomed Paris into her office and seemed prepared to pep-talk him through the usual how-did-I-screw-up? gradually hardened as she realized what he’d really come there to say. The voice grew cold as Pluto. He straightened his shoulders as she interrogated him, stiffened his back.

Took it all, chin up through the whole damned ritual of recrimination and retaliation. Took the cashiering out. Took his father’s contempt.

Drink helped of course. Booze softens anything.

But that wasn’t all. What _really_ helped was the knowledge that they were right, that they’d finally found out what a fuck-up he was and were acting on it at last. They’d finally realized that he was damaged goods—shit, his father’d hinted at it enough.

Actually, it was a kind of relief, looked at the right way.

Still, it cut in a way liquor didn’t smooth over. All those damned upright Starfleet types turning their backs, sneering, cold. Wide-eyed cadets staring queasily at the Admiral’s fallen son as the trial progressed. His father’s rage.

So he showed them he didn’t need them, that he was a pilot no matter what.

Found his way to the Maquis.

And, sure he wasn’t much of a recruit, sure he was basically in it for the flying, sure he was there because— Well, yeah, he was showing all those people who’d made his life miserable. But it was flying; and just about every Maquis he met had been betrayed by the very Starfleet that had betrayed him.

Even that damned stubborn Chakotay—the untrusting bastardsonofabitch. Father murdered by Cardassians on a planet the Federation basically abandoned. He’d been in Starfleet himself, left it for a principle.

That he was fucking amazing-looking was—well, just one of those pluses life occasionally hands you. Even in that little dive on K’laut’k II, he looked upright and confident. Paris took one look and lost what was left of his soul.

Shiiiit. He’d fight for this guy; he’d show this guy; he’d make himself indispensable to this guy, be the best pilot this guy could want. Defeat everybody who’d betrayed them both.

So of course what Paris _really_ showed Chakotay was what a fuck-up he was. First mission, and Paris hot to show his stuff—and Starfleet just reached out and nabbed him without breaking a sweat.

But surely— All through the interrogation, all through the trial, Paris waited. Surely they weren’t going to—surely Chakotay would rescue him. Surely the Maquis wouldn’t just _leave_ him.

When the Federation shipped him off to Auckland, Paris was still waiting. When his father refused to see him, and his mother didn’t make contact—he was still waiting.

But he took it. Took it with squared shoulders and straight spine, the way he’d been taught. Took the veiled contempt of the Federation guards and not-so-veiled distrust of the other prisoners.

Captain Kathryn Janeway. Petite no-nonsense sizing him up, cold calculations flickering behind the steady gaze. Asking him to betray his “friends” in the Maquis, so she could rescue her own old friend. Must be nice to have friends, to have people who trusted you, people you’d rescue if they were lost to the other side, people who’d rescue you in the same situation.

Naturally, he said, “Yes.”

And the Badlands—well, no Federation ship had flown through them, but that didn’t mean _Voyager_ couldn’t. Because she was one _sweeeeet_ ship. In Paris’s mind he sat at her conn and flew her a hundred times. It was great. He saved them; he saved them all, a miracle speeding silently through the vortices and the sensor-blanking plasma storms, weaving a net of phaser fire and justice. The untrusting sonofabitch would learn: learn who he was dealing with, what Paris could do when he had the chance—nothing could be better.

Better went worst faster than light speed, on the crest of a tetrion wave that the pretty Betazoid at the helm couldn’t handle. With Paris there, who knows? He was born to fly a ship like this, a ship this sweet; he was born to lose himself in her circuits and responses, to keep her on course no matter what.

**But.**

But he wasn’t at the helm; and then it was smoke and blood and the sourness of failure. Quick flashes of Caldik Prime.

 _Not your fault_. He hadn’t fucking done anything but stand around. So now he got down to cleaning things up, helping through shutdown of nonessential systems, through the cataloguing of malfunctions. Through the realization that they were now in the unknown Delta Quadrant. _Not YOUR damn fault_.

Through the shouting on the bridge and all the rest of it. Janeway, her hair down and her chin up, glaring and snapping out orders. She caught his eye for a nanosecond of sympathy and approval that pierced him to the soul. Starfleet captains. Shit—he’d die for her.

But the mistrust hadn’t actually gone away: it was there all through what happened next, through a surreal hoedown on an illusory farm, through the cold terror of a Frankenstein laboratory where he was tested and again found wanting, through the chaos of waking out of a mad dream. _Not your fucking fault_. With Ensign Kim gone, and, sure, Paris really didn’t know him—had barely talked to him—but he’d been stubbornly loyal and was touchingly naive and stood his post on the bridge, rattling off sensor readings within seconds at the end of that horrible ride. — _your_ _fault_. Paris was pretty hot to find him.

**Found more than just Harry Kim.**

Found that bastard Chakotay, still spitting insults: “What was your price _this_ time?” Well, screw him: Paris had new irons in the fire.

That one of Chakotay’s crew had turned out to be a spy was just sweet reward. But Paris could be magnanimous.

Still, you’d think there’d be some gratitude when Chakotay broke his leg escaping the Ocampan homeworld and Paris went back for him.

“Get out of here, Paris,” he snarled as Paris started down the creaking, swaying metal staircase, “before the whole thing comes down.”

Shit. You’d think a guy hanging on for dear life to a stairway about to drop into an abyss would be less mouthy. “I intend to. Just as soon as I get you up.”

He could pretty much hear the disbelieving snort Chakotay probably thought.

The fucking shaking staircase, groaning and about to fall into the abyss—and Chakotay never letting up. Well, while he was talking, he was still alive; and while Paris was returning insults, he wasn’t shaking so badly he’d humiliate himself.

All that long struggle up the groaning staircase—everything swaying, falling apart. All that long way, Chakotay kept it up, insult for insult, smart-ass remark for smart-ass observation.

Through the sheer terror of what was happening, Paris felt an unexpected rush: anticipation. This time he’d done it. This time he’d saved them all, shown them all. Shown Chakotay. Something new in his life was about to be born.

**And then, sweetest of all sights: Janeway reaching out to pull them to safety as the nightmare staircase fell away into the abyss.**

Of course, the fucking Kazon had to ruin everything by attacking them, the Maquis ship, the Array that could send them all back to the Alpha Quadrant—every damn target in the area. Paris found himself appreciating again just how amazing Chakotay and his crew were: dart in, sling phaser fire, dart out. Damn beautiful.

The biggest fucking Kazon ship in the Delta Quadrant had to arrive and mess that up, too.

And then that stubborn ass transported his crew to _Voyager_ and rode his own disabled ship straight for the enemy.

Paris snatched him out of it just as the Maquis ship found its target. _That’s TWO for me_ , he thought.

Good thing he didn’t expect Chakotay to be grateful.

Of course, that wasn’t the end of it, and that didn’t save them. Didn’t get them back to the Alpha Quadrant. The Array had to be destroyed, and they had to do it—doom themselves to a lifetime 70 lightyears from home. That just dropped the bottom out of everything.

But, he was back in the bosom of Starfleet, chief helmsman of a ship he was just about ready to marry, right back to lieutenant.

Another chance. And, behind him on the bridge, giving orders and back in Starfleet red, that bastard Chakotay, still looking like one fucking hot ride.

**And on a seventy-five-year trip home, who knows what can happen?**

Still a damned stubborn bastard. And completely humorless. But loyal, managing Torres’ promotion to chief engineer, managing the fallout from that damned temper of hers.

Paris flew. Bonded with the beautiful ship so responsive to his touch. Dodged the veiled insults and wicked whispers in the mess. Ignored the cold shouldering of the—well, former, but just barely—Maquis. Played deaf to the sneers of the Starfleet crew. Stayed upright, loyal, true, and all the other stuff, for Janeway, who’d believed in him. Janeway, who’d trusted him. Janeway, who seemed to see in him what he wanted to see in himself. The calculations in her eyes had long since reached a conclusion. Now was his chance to live up to it.

He was changing. He _was_. Not the old guy.

****

Not that Chakotay noticed right away. Things on the ship were just too complicated. Morale was pretty much nonexistant, despite the efforts of Neelix, who cooked and sang and just generally made himself a well-meaning annoyance. The two crews didn’t mesh well; the two commanders had to find their feet. That both sides had been trying to kill each other made it difficult to trust. Sometimes it seemed they had not one damn thing in common.

Except _Voyager_. She was their center. She was home; she was shielding mother; she was needy child. Focusing on her, they lost their focus on the past. Ministering to her, they helped each other. Learning to trust her, they began to trust each other.

Flying through the void, Paris started again to trust himself. Best damn pilot Starfleet ever graduated. Janeway’s willing slave.

He’d be Chakotay’s slave, too, if the bastard would just unbend.

Among the crew, things started to ease. Jokes broke out in the mess. Torres teased Harry unmercifully, and Paris watched him fall hard for her. It was sweet, but she didn’t seem interested.

Paris watched it all from his own little pocket of reality. Mostly watched Chakotay, bridging the crews. Watched Seska cozy up to him again; watched him back away: maybe distancing himself from the old Maquis days, now that he had to be Starfleet. Or maybe saving himself for somebody. The Captain, maybe; she certainly seemed intrigued.

Paris could understand the attraction.

Though being married to Chakotay turned out to be something less than a treat.

The Oeongaleesh, who were a kind of pathetic people, but whose planet seemed promisingly rich in dilithium. What there was of the planet: it was mostly sea, with one big island that seemed like an afterthought. And a skittish populace: the merchant who shuttled up to dicker with them took one look at Janeway and looked ready to scamper. So Chakotay stepped in. Went down to the planet with Paris and Kim, to check out the dilithium deposits and maybe do some bargaining.

It was a nice, warm planet. Tropical. Women probably didn’t wear much, judging by the men’s sarongs. Walking around the shabby little village with his tricorder, Paris kept an eye out—just for the sake of anthropology, of course. The odd thing was—

“Have you seen any women at _all?_ ” Harry murmured to him.

“Now that you mention it—”

“Maybe they’re—secluded?”

Could be. Lots of civilizations kept one part or another of the population tucked away from strangers. The Aikiss, who veiled their men; the Ferengi, who kept their women naked at home.

Chakotay joined them then, compared readings, tapped his commbadge to report to Janeway. “Looks promising,” he said.

“Go ahead and start negotiations,” Janeway told him.

Chakotay nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “I’ll report back once I know more.”

“Acknowledged. And, Chakotay—stick together. Something about that merchant’s reaction is making me uneasy.”

So they stuck together—for the most part. Into the head man’s house, which was basically an open hall. Chakotay and the head man went to the far end to negotiate. Paris and Kim lounged near the door. Well, actually, _Kim_ lounged. When Chakotay left them, the servants guided Harry to a big, soft chair and plunked him down into it. A couple brought him food and something to drink and smiled shyly at him. Stared at him like yokels studying the city slicker.

“Here, Tom.” Harry started up with a glass of the drink.

But one of the men made an impatient face and took it from him, patted him back into the chair. Handed the glass to Paris with a chilly little sniff.

Gee, _thanks_.

As Chakotay dickered and Kim looked puzzled, more men arrived. They were served by the head man’s servants, and they sat down, and they eyed Paris the way a horse trader eyes the horse he’s thinking of buying—or a customer eyes a whore he’s considering.

Paris sidled over to Harry. “ _What’s_ going on?” he muttered.

“Beats _me!_ ”

Chakotay dickered, and more men arrived. The head man’s servants were polite and deferential to them. They smiled and cooed over Kim. They treated Paris like he was furniture. The men stared at him like he was a juicy steak.

A chill started to work its way up his spine.

“Maybe I’ll just go see how Chakotay’s doing—” Paris murmured to Kim. He started to wander toward the far end.

One of the men stepped in his way. Paris froze, readied himself to take a blow or give one. The guy leered at him.

“Too-oo many cloooothes,” he said. He grabbed Paris’s tunic and yanked.

“ _Tom!_ ” Harry was up in a heartbeat, but one of the men made shooing motions at him. Grabbed him gently when Harry started around him, and put him right back in the chair, crooning, “Now—now; think of the baby,” at him as he struggled.

Paris stepped back, cocked his fist. It was grabbed by one of the other men, who laughed.

“Lively,” he said.

And then there were other guys right there, pressing in; and hands groping him and tugging at his clothes; and somebody grabbed his other hand when he tried to defend himself; fabric ripped; and, _Shiit! This is a fucking GANG rape!_ slid into his mind.

Then Chakotay’s meaty hand was around the first guy’s throat. “Let,” he said. “Go.” The guy’s face started to turn interesting shades as Chakotay gripped.

The guy let go. They _all_ let go.

And, after a second or two, so did Chakotay.

“You all right?” he said to Paris, and he actually sounded like he cared.

“Yeah,” Paris said breathlessly. Shit—he was shaking.

Kim wrenched free of the man’s grip and managed finally to get up. “I thought they were going to—” he said.

“What the hell happened?” Chakotay asked.

“I have _no_ —” Paris started.

The head man bustled up. “What _happened?_ ” he screamed at Chakotay.

Paris saw Chakotay’s eyes go hard. “That’s what I asked,” he said.

But the head man wasn’t listening. “All they wanted to do was see your trade wife without her clothing—see what they’re going to enjoy at the contract signing. _You_ were the one who put her in clothes! You should have _known_ they would strip her!”

And for one delirious minute, Paris wondered if the universal translator had gone completely haywire. Chakotay’s mouth fell open. He turned a kind of muddy color. Paris watched about half a million replies go through his mind.

Then, “If I _clothe_ … someone,” he said, “I expect them to _stay_ clothed.”

Good answer. Ambiguous pronouns.

“I’ll need to think about this negotiation,” he said crisply. “I’ll get back to you.”

——

“ _Trade—WIFE?_ ” Janeway said, blinking. Her eyes got that glazed look.

“Somehow,” Chakotay said, “our tricorder readings failed to indicate that about half those—” He visibly fumbled for a word.

“—people?” she supplied.

“—are female.”

Janeway stared at him. “And the wife…?”

Paris watched Chakotay think through about 47 ways to answer. Harry’s face turned a mottled red.

“They interpreted the two subordinate officers as—” Chakotay said.

“They thought I was having the Commander’s baby!” Kim’s voice was a little loud for an ensign responding to a captain—and interrupting a commander to do it.

Paris saw her lock every muscle in her face—probably to keep from laughing—then rearrange them into a somewhat pensive expression. “And Lieutenant Paris?”

“Merchants have two wives.” Chakotay had finally figured out his explanation. “One to bear children and one—”

“—to seal the deal,” Paris put in before he could say it. “Apparently every contract signing ends with a gang bang.”

Janeway’s glance at him was an automatic reproof of his language; then her mouth twisted as if she’d tasted something disgusting. “I’m sorry, Tom.” She looked at Chakotay. “Can we salvage this? We could certainly use those crystals.”

“I think we can,” he said. “But—if you don’t mind, I’d like to go back down with—with Lieutenant Paris. Have him do the negotiating. Make perfectly clear that he’s a valued member of this crew who’s to be treated with respect.”

For another dizzy moment, Paris wondered if the translator had gone on the fritz.

Janeway was smiling at him. “Lieutenant Paris?” she asked.

He looked at her, at Chakotay. They really seemed to think it should be up to him. Chakotay really seemed to mean what he’d said.

**“Okay,” Paris heard himself say.**

Of course, he mentally kicked himself about 32 times a minute as he floundered through the negotiations with the puzzled and slightly resentful head man. Chakotay was a solid presence beside him; and Paris wasn’t sure which finally closed the deal: Paris’s winning ways or Chakotay’s unwavering stare.

The head man didn’t even seem sorry that their usual little deal-closing shindig didn’t happen.

Paris waited for the next few days: waited for somebody to say something about whores, make some remark. But there was nothing—suprising, given the gossip-mongers on _this_ ship. But the Captain and Chakotay apparently were keeping their reports under wraps; and Harry Kim was too freaky at the thought of Chakotay and child-bearing to let anybody else in on their humiliating little encounter in paradise. Paris could rib him, though, which made Paris feel unaccountably good.

Chakotay was still … Chakotay. Upright, uptight. Spine of duranium, with stubbornness to match. But Paris remembered the fury in those eyes when he had his hand around the neck of the wannabe rapist. That hadn’t all been just outrage over a subordinate being pawed.

And—now and then—Chakotay made a little joke for Paris to smile at. Now and then, a quirk of a smile.

Now and then, a glance that hinted at—speculation.

And _that_ , terrifying, _also_ made Paris feel unaccountably good.

He thought about it while he tinkered on the holodeck. Always soothing to write his own world, where things could pretty much go the way he wanted them to. He fiddled with an old program: little dive in Marseilles that he’d spent far too much time as a cadet. When it seemed right, he fired it up for the rest of the crew. Most of them used it as a place to gather in, combining their holodeck time for a little pool, a little music, some pretty good wine. Not everybody. Chakotay didn’t show up much.

The crew’s pleasure was warming, though like any artist Paris still fooled with stuff, smoothing this out, adding that. Great thing about a virtual world is that you can fiddle with it whether it needs it or not.

Paris went there, played pool, drank, flirted. Never seemed completely right, though: something missing.

Scaryshit moment when he realized what it was. When he realized that, somehow, even this touch of home, with all his friends there—somehow, the whole program seemed off.

Unless that stubborn sonofabitch with the attitude problem was right there, too.

Not that Paris did anything about it, of course. Well, not with Chakotay.

Because there were plenty of warm bodies on that ship, and some of them hadn’t heard half the stories about Paris.

Because, really, he didn’t need Chakotay, didn’t need that smug arrogance, that superiority. Didn’t need the reminders of his mistakes and his failings.

So Paris enjoyed himself with people on the planets they passed—though, okay, that turned out to be a bad idea on Banea, when that scientist was murdered while Paris was flirting with his wife.

Better still was enjoying himself with people on both crews—those Delaney sisters, wow! and, _twins!_ —but he got restless fast—sometimes even before he got to the actual payoff. And Chakotay started looking impatient again, started acting curt, freezing him out. Acting disappointed in him.

Not that it mattered to Paris. Nothing Chakotay did mattered to Paris.

Time the bastard realized that.

The bastard seemed not to have realized it by the time Torres asked him and Paris to take out the recently overhauled Shuttle _Ibn Battuta_ for a shakedown spin. The whole trip, Chakotay was silent as a stone, except when he snapped out orders for this and that. They tried out the warp capabilities—maybe not the smartest thing, given that they were in Kazon space—and had to take her engine apart and do a little on-the-spot revamp that took a good portion of the afternoon. By the time they were done and had a fix on _Voyager_ , Paris was ready to pitch Chakotay right out an airlock.

And, wouldn’t you know, even once they were back at the ship, things weren’t right.

Because they were there, and _Voyager_ was there.

But the crew wasn’t.

For an eternal minute, Paris couldn’t seem to breathe.

Scanning and talking to the computer and talking to the Doctor and reconstructing the timeline didn’t make him feel any better.

Crew removed in the space of a few seconds, a couple hours and light years ago. Some sort of sensor beam bathing the ship; and then the logs every place on the ship showed the same: crew member, shimmer, gone.

“Transporter?” Chakotay murmured.

So they flew _Voyager_ back to within kilometers of where the crew had vanished. Damn creepy trip, on a silent ship that seemed populated by ghosts.

“My _god_ ,” Chakotay breathed when he saw what was waiting for them.

“Shiiiit,” Paris agreed.

Six moons, one ringed planet—nothing special. Except the space between was littered with ships: various types, in various stages of decay. All drifting for the big planet, slowly drawing them ever closer for a final fiery fall.

All abandoned.

Sensors hinted at a population, scattered thinly over a planet full of ruins. No modern technology. A couple hot spots, though, where something hummed and provided energy. There, the population was thicker. Calculations showed them where _Voyager_ had been when the crew vanished: right over one of the hot spots where there was one fucking big building humming with energy, and some villages.

They argued over how the hell to get down there without triggering whatever had happened before; and then they argued over whether both of them should go or not.

They both transported down, to just outside the building.

“Nice day,” Paris observed.

Chakotay grunted. Phasers drawn, they took readings of the building and the area and the nice day. Building impenetrable to tricorder scans, area clear of humanoids, and ambient temperature well-nigh perfect.

So, in they went.

It was obvious that the building hadn’t been used for years. And it was equally obvious when Chakotay tried his commbadge that communication with the ship would be impossible.

Greaaaat. Paris just loved these.

He liked this one less than usual: unlighted corridor littered with unrecognizable junk. Carbon marks here and there; center of the corridor clean and well-worn: somebody went through here regularly.

They edged along, aiming lights, phasers ready. Creepy building silent except for the busy hum of machinery. Empty—

Except for the enormous room where _Voyager_ ’s crew slept. Tier after tier of shelves, with _Voyager_ ’s crew asleep on them. Machinery humming in the background. Paris had a flash of the Caretaker’s awful laboratory.

A hiss from Chakotay; and Paris flashed his light to a little table to the side. A crew member—Samtha?—in a tangle of tubes and machinery. Dissected quite efficiently.

Paris swallowed hard and lowered his light.

“Whatever that machinery is—” Chakotay’s voice was tight. “—we have to get it turned off.” Paris watched him change from the shocked man back into the Commander. “I’ll go look for a power source. You get someone back to the ship, so the Doctor can figure out what’s happened.”

“Let _me_ look for the power source,” Paris said. “The Doctor might need you to—”

“Just don’t stay too long, Tom,” Chakotay said briskly. And he left.

Damn. It really _wasn’t_ that Paris was concerned for Chakotay’s safety; it was just that—well, that sometimes you needed a Commander to tell the Doctor what was what. Really; it was just that. He spotted Janeway, on one of the lower shelves. Besides, the damned stubborn sonofabitch always seemed to get himself into trouble when somebody wasn’t around to—

What was that light?

He turned. Torches, in the doorway. Fire, flickering.

His light fell full on a group stopped in the doorway. For a half second, everybody froze.

In that half second, his eye took in everything: men, women, children. Baskets. Knives. All of them had knives.

He felt the hair at the back of his neck prickle.

Then he was howling and waving his light around, stamping toward them, shrieking at the top of his lungs.

Somebody screamed, and the group stampeded out the door. He followed them, up the corridor clear to the entrance, still howling. It would have been funny, but there was something about those knives that—

A cry from behind him; and Paris was off at a run. Chakotay. Fucking stubborn Chakotay—

Who was struggling to move, apparently held in the corridor by some beam.

While a guy with a torch and a knife circled him, apparently looking for the best place to stab.

He fell with a really satisfying smack when Paris phasered him.

“Don’t!” Chakotay shouted as Paris came for him. “I—I seem to have triggered something. No point in getting you caught, too.”

And the fucking tricorder was, of course, no use. No figuring out where the beam was coming from, so Paris could phaser it out of existence.

“How come he wasn’t affected?” Paris asked, using the tricorder anyway.

“I don’t know—different biology?”

As much sense as any— “I think they were here to—as … cannibals.”

Sick look at each other; then both looked at the downed hunter beside the torch with its dying flame.

“What happened to your light?” Paris asked.

“It quit working the second the beam caught me. Phaser isn’t working, either. Some sort of electromagnetic pulse, I guess.”

Great.

“Tom,” said Chakotay. “You have to get a force field up at the entrance, keep those people out of here. You have to get somebody up to _Voyager_ , so the Doctor can start working on them.”

“And if _he_ wakes up?” Paris said, raising his phaser to remind Chakotay that it could be set on _kill_.

Chakotay gave him a little headshake tantamount to an order. “Just hurry,” he said.

So Paris hurried. Into the room, where he found Janeway and tossed her unceremoniously over his shoulder. Back up the corridor, shining his light into every corner.

Because he was frozen with horror at what could happen if any of those people had crept back. The helpless crew. Chakotay, imprisoned there in darkness as that torch guttered out, listening for his murderer waking.

The cannibals hadn’t retreated far outside the building. And, shit, they didn’t look happy. But they stayed away, though he’d love an excuse to phaser them all out of existence.

He called the computer, described the force field he wanted, waited while it sizzled into place. Transported himself and Janeway to the ship.

“Since when has it been procedure to transport the patient over your shoulder like a Neanderthal?” the Doctor huffed when they materialized in sickbay.

“No time,” Paris said. “Take care of her, brief her, come up with a way we can get the crew awake before somebody does them in.” He was out of Sickbay before the Doctor could come up with another huffy speech.

 _Just hurry_. Paris grabbed a phaser rifle, transported back to just inside the force field. The crowd had gotten bolder. They were throwing stones at the field, either fascinated by the sparks or convinced they could “break” it.

He ran. A glance into the room where the crew still slept dreamless.

He charged down the corridor, rifle at ready.

Except he was too fucking late. The cannibal was on his feet, fingers tangled in Chakotay’s hair, knife on Chakotay’s throat. Growling something unfriendly into Chakotay’s ear as he walked the Commander backward up the corridor.

The cannibal stopped when Paris’s light hit them. Cast a glare at Paris, then started dragging Chakotay up the corridor toward Paris. This time, though, he was watching his feet on the well-lit path.

Shit. Paris had a great shot at him, but he was the only one who could get Chakotay out of that beam. And if the bastard so much as twitched as he went down, Chakotay’s throat would be sliced ear to ear.

Paris fell back before them, lit the bastard’s path so he wouldn’t stumble and accidentally kill the commander of the sweetest ship in the Delta Quadrant. He practically felt Chakotay’s relief when they left the area controlled by the beam and he could move on his own. Not that he could move much.

With the Commander clear, Paris made his own move.

“Hey,” he said to the cannibal.

Who glared at him and made a threatening twitch with the knife.

Oh, great. “ _Me_ ,” Paris said, pointing to himself. “Take _me_.” He gestured to the knife, then to himself. “Take _me_. I’m a hell of a lot more tender.”

“Don’t.” Chakotay caught his breath as the knife shifted on his throat.

“Don’t worry. I have no intention of being lunch.” But, _Voyager_ could better stand to lose a pilot than she could her commander—though he’d never tell Chakotay that. He smiled invitingly at the cannibal. “Take _me_.”

The logic, the smile, or the promise of being tender—something made up the cannibal’s mind. Or maybe it was the light Paris was carrying—the guy couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off it.

Either way, he swung the knife from Chakotay’s throat to Paris’s, let go of Chakotay, grabbed Paris by the hair and bent his head back before either could move. Very efficient.

“More painful than it _looks_ ,” Paris hissed. But just as awkward: dragged backward, hoping to hell the guy didn’t twitch too hard.

“ _Shit_ , Paris!” Chakotay followed them, stealthily took the phaser rifle, which the cannibal apparently didn’t see as a weapon.

“Hey—you’re always … telling me to take initiative.” His neck muscles were screaming—couldn’t the guy let up for a _second?_

Then they were past the room where the crew lay helpless, and then they were at the open entrance, where sunlight streamed in.

Paris turned off his light.

The cannibal stopped in his tracks; and for a horrible instant Paris thought he was going to just slaughter him on the spot.

But the idiot just made a surprised sound and lifted the knife to gesture at Paris’s light with it.

And dropped when Chakotay cold-cocked him with the rifle butt.

Didn’t let go of Paris fast enough, though; and, “ _Shit!_ ” Paris was on the ground, rubbing uselessly at his wrenched neck.

Then Chakotay was beside him, kicking the knife far down the corridor; and his hands were on Paris’s neck, kneading, soothing. Felt pretty fucking good. Paris relaxed into it.

“ _Damn_ it, Tom,” Chakotay said with some heat.

Paris looked up at him. “This is what—three times I’ve saved your life? Three lives you owe me?”

“Well, I _did_ save yours when the Oeongaleesh wanted it.”

My god: an actual joke. “Actually, it wasn’t my _life_ they were after….”

And then Chakotay was looking down at him; and Paris saw a smile touch the corners of the precise mouth. “So, if my life belongs to _you_ , since you’ve saved it,” Chakotay murmured, “then, I suppose your virtue belongs to—”

“Gentlemen!” Janeway’s voice, brisk.

Chakotay let go. Paris’s head hit the floor with a distinct thunk. “ _Sorry_ ,” muttered Chakotay. He helped Paris to his feet.

“Are you all right?” asked the captain.

“Just my— Oh, god.” Paris winced. “Just my neck and my head and about half the muscles down my back—”

“Report to the Doctor.” Janeway took him from Chakotay, supported him as they left the building. “Come back when he’s taken care of you.”

Oh, gee—alone and helpless with pain in the hands of the Doctor, no doubt still smarting from being ordered around like a mere ensign. What fun.

But Janeway grasped his arm and looked deep into his eyes. “Good job, Tom.”

And Paris looked past her at the doorway, where Chakotay stood, actually smiling at him; and wouldn’t you know it, the praise in Janeway’s husky, intimate tone was nothing compared with the memory of Chakotay’s strong, comforting hands and that smile, so warm that Paris wanted to bathe in it forever.

It actually took no time at all to get everybody up and out of there: once the captain was properly infuriated, all kinds of things could happen. Samtha was the only casualty, though the Doctor came close to being erased when he chirped, “Excellent job!” at the sight of her dissected body.

What to do occupied some hours of discussion. Examination of what computer logs they could decipher and of what parts of the building they could safely move through hinted at a disaster of global proportions sometime in the distant past. Something—one of those fabulous diseases that the Delta Quadrant seemed to specialize in, perhaps—befalling the population led them to create these monstrous automatic laboratories, kidnapping the crews of passing starships, to be analyzed, apparently in the hope that they held the key to an antidote. Poor Samtha had almost done in Chakotay: her biology, fed into the system, taught the computer that humans were now lab subjects, to be caught if they escaped, and to be held until a member of the planet’s population came to take charge.

Which was where the cannibals came in. Descendants, it seemed, of the original builders. Survivors of the devastation, now living quite literally on the accidental bounty that arrived every few months.

A couple well-placed photon torpedoes changed their diet for good.

From his place on the bridge, Paris looked at the abandoned starships in their decaying orbits and thought about the crews, kidnapped and helpless under the knives of people more curious about how they tasted than about what they knew or thought or created. The damned arbitrariness of the universe was just breathtaking sometimes.

 _Yeah_ , he thought, _like you didn’t know that already_.

——

It was a really great wake—everybody seemed to think so. Samtha probably would have enjoyed it: eulogizing her, everybody managed to forget the time she fried the newly refurbished antimatter reactant injector and the time she cracked the case on the antideuterium sublimator—which really shouldn’t have been possible—and the dozen or so times she tried to attach the injector nozzles backward. Instead, they focused on the times she _didn’t_ screw things up; and Neelix told a really funny story about how she taught him to make trianon. He made it for the wake. It was a really good recipe.

Chakotay waylaid Paris when he went for his third piece of cake. “What you did,” he said, “trading yourself for me with that cannibal—”

Paris felt his jaw tighten. “When an officer is in imminent danger of death, a subordinate is expected to take his place if it is at all feasible.” And a _Thanks, Tom! You saved my ass!_ wouldn’t kill you.

Chakotay blinked. “Where is _that_ in the regulations?”

It was in the Paris Code of Conduct, which he wasn’t going to explicate.

“What I wanted to say,” Chakotay went on, “was that it’s the kind of thing I _don’t_ want you doing again.”

Paris looked at him: Chakotay’s eyes had the familiar _disagree-with-me-and-die_ expression. So much for that little warm moment on the planet.

“ _Voyager_ needs all the good pilots she has, to get her home,” Chakotay continued.

“And she needs her Commander more.”

Chakotay’s spine straightened at that; Paris thought, _Here we go again_. He braced himself for Dressing Down Number 92 on the subject of not arguing with a superior officer.

“The lieutenant’s conclusion is correct.” Tuvok’s dry voice firmed Chakotay’s jaw. “Your influence on _Voyager_ clearly outweighs that of a single pilot, who can be replaced by anyone with sufficient skills.”

Ah, gee, Tuvok; didn’t know you cared.

Paris’s dismay must have showed: Chakotay’s mouth quirked. He leaned in. “Happy now, lieutenant?”

Oh, yeah. Paris watched Tuvok stride purposefully off. _Thanks, Tuvok. Thanks a LOT_. Every time Paris thought about it, trading his life for Chakotay’s was an act of loyalty; in Tuvok’s explanation, it was just Starfleet mathematics. Made Paris feel just peachy.

“And, Paris—” Chakotay’s voice was steel; his eyes were stone. “—like I said, _don’t_. Do it. Again.”

Not that Paris didn’t have plenty of opportunities to save the stubborn bastard’s life in the next weeks. Somehow, life in the Delta Quadrant was just one potential catastrophe after another. Made you wonder how the natives managed to survive.

Though there were those natives you just basically wanted to deck. Like the Ekaishaan, who might possibly have an acceptable power source, but whose condescension rivaled Tuvok’s. There was the fact that their clocks were set differently from those on _Voyager_ , and there was their amusement that they’d caught _Voyager_ in sleep cycle. And there was the fact that, after Janeway had been wakened and stumbled to the bridge, it turned out that they wanted to talk to _Chakotay_ , since the Ekaishaan women ran the spaceship, while the men made the contact and did the trading. So up Chakotay got, at what was now 0330 hours, and over to the Ekaishaan ship he went, to make preliminary contact; and back he came at about 0700 to report to Janeway. It looked good, but—

“The final deal will be finalized tonight,” he said, “— _their_ tonight. Our— In half an hour.” He looked exhausted.

Janeway used some of her precious replicator credits to offer him more coffee, which he drank with evident gratitude. Paris, newly awake, watched wistfully as Chakotay drank the coffee. And watched Janeway watch wistfully as Chakotay drank the coffee. My _god_ , but they had to get a fucking power source. Coffee was becoming more important than breath.

Having drunk the coffee, Chakotay continued. “They’ll finalize it at some sort of dinner party. Well, breakfast for us, but—” He blinked, made another try. “They’d like me to attend with a junior officer. Apparently they have an apprentice system and are uncomfortable with the idea that I don’t have a—ah—student. I was thinking that Lieutenant Paris would be the best choice. I’ve learned to count on his level-headedness in bad situations.”

Paris stared at Chakotay. My god, it was a, bygod, _compliment_. From Chakotay. That coffee was just going right to the big lug’s head.

Janeway was smiling at both of them. “I think it’s a very good idea,” she said.

So, off Paris went with Chakotay to the dinner party. Or breakfast. “I hope they don’t have something—just inedible,” he said.

“And just what,” Chakotay replied, “could be more inedible than one of Neelix’s breakfasts?”

The opening conversation, for one. “Ah!” said Bishooan, the head trader, as they exited the shuttle in the Ekaishaan shuttle bay. “Your cock-warmer!”

There was one of those universal-translator-fried-my-brain moments. Paris looked at Chakotay. Did fucking _everybody_ in the fucking Delta Quadrant fucking think fucking Chakotay was fucking him? Chakotay turned that muddy color.

“Uh—” he said. “I thought you said ‘ _student_.’ ”

“Are they not with you the same, as they are with us? Do they not come to you because they admire you, because they are eager to learn, eager to give themselves to your service, body and mind, that they might learn from you? That they might become like you?”

Chakotay turned red. _Yeah, Chakotay_ , Paris thought, _did they not come to you, because they wanted to become Maquis?_

“We—uh— We don’t have that system.”

“Pity.”

But Bishooan still seemed amenable to the negotiation.

“I am so sorry, Tom,” Chakotay murmured as they followed him down one of the head-scrapingly low corridors. “They said ‘student.’ I distinctly heard them say ‘student.’ ”

“Just as long as I’m not served up a la mode at dinner.”

Chakotay quirked him a quick grin. “You always struck me as the barbecue sauce type.”

Good grief, a joke! “What do _you_ know about barbecue sauce? You’re a vegetarian.”

The grin widened, was combined with a sidelong glance of pure mischief. “I have my non-vegetarian moments.”

Right about then they entered the cabin where the dinner was to be held, which was a good thing, because Paris’s brain was circling around “non-vegetarian moments” and that mischievous glance and the whole general theme in the Delta Quadrant that he was Chakotay’s bed boy and the general lush quality of Chakotay’s mouth; and—well, it was just a little too early in the day for that kind of rush, or even for admitting to himself that he was _having_ that kind of—

He stopped dead inside the cabin. Pillows, all over; they’d be sitting on pillows at the low table; actually, reclining was more likely; Chakotay reclining right next to him on those nice, soft pillows; and it was just a little too early in the day for _that_ kind of image, too.

Though things actually got worse during breakfast— _dinner_. Because they didn’t just recline and feed themselves: the—uh, _students_ served their—hmm, _mentors_. And more.

About halfway through the meal, some of the students started getting a little … fresh.

Bishooan’s student—a young man handsome in the Ekaishaan mode—knelt behind him, whispering into his ear as he slid his hands down Bishooan’s body and then circled a distinct bulge at Bishooan’s crotch with a languid finger.

Paris licked his dry lips and looked at Chakotay. Chakotay hadn’t noticed; he was too busy not staring at the men beside them, one of whom seemed to be trying to map the other’s body with his hands, under his clothes. Chakotay’s face was about the red of his uniform. His breathing was erratic.

Paris caught Bishooan’s reproving look at him and Chakotay and thought, _Well, when in Rome_ —

He took Chakotay’s chin in his hand and planted a good, solid kiss right on Chakotay’s mouth.

The Commander froze for an instant; and then his mouth opened under Paris’s, and the good kiss became a great kiss. When Chakotay pushed him off, Paris was dizzy.

Not too dizzy to notice Chakotay’s face: half desperate, half furious.

“They—seem to expect us to,” Paris managed to say.

Chakotay still looked furious, but the desperation was taking over; and when Paris lowered his mouth, Chakotay’s rose to meet his with an audible click of teeth on teeth.

Shiiiit. Paris pushed him down onto the pillows, and for a glorious white-hot moment they seemed to fuse at the mouth, tongues busy exploring. Breaking away just allowed him to kiss Chakotay’s jaw, cheek, chin, throat.

When the Commander pushed him away, Paris almost fought him.

They stared at each other for a long, breathless minute. Paris was dimly aware of somebody moaning nearby, and of some rhythmic sounds that were pretty universal. His cock twitched in sympathy.

Chakotay closed his eyes for a minute; and when he opened them, he was the calm Commander again, taking charge, making the decisions. “This is going no further,” he said in a low voice. “You’re one damn fine kisser, and we may be in the middle of an orgy, but this is going no further.”

Paris leaned close. “Is that what they tell you to do at the Academy?”

Chakotay grinned. “Yes, actually. They have—a similar scenario, one of the cases we study.”

“And if the loyal lieutenant just drops his pants and begs the stalwart commander to fuck him dry?” Because mygod it was a distinct possibility.

“Then the stalwart commander thinks of Starfleet and the handsome lieutenant’s reputation and how used he’d feel later and—” His voice softened. “—and says, ‘no.’ ”

 _No_. Said like that, it was another case of that Starfleet mathematics. Paris felt as if he’d been slapped.

“Okay,” he heard himself say as if from a distance.

And he leaned forward, putting one hand directly on Chakotay’s crotch, and kissed him solidly on the mouth.

This time, Chakotay didn’t react, didn’t deepen the kiss. When Paris pulled away, Chakotay looked at him. That familiar old anger was building in his eyes.

“We still haven’t closed the deal,” Paris said; and he put his frustration into his kissing, into the touch of his fingers on Chakotay’s body. Stubborn sonofabitch.

Chakotay’s breathing was rough when he struggled to sit up a few minutes later. Paris kissed the side of Chakotay’s neck. The Commander picked up some _haschwa_ in his fingers and slid it into Paris’s mouth as tenderly as if he were feeding a lover.

“Ready to finalize our deal?” Bishooan boomed across the table.

For a horrible moment, Paris was afraid he meant a trade of bed partners; and the alarm in Chakotay’s face hinted that he thought so, too.

But it just meant more boring bargaining, now that appetites of all kinds had been satisfied.

Or, rather, _not_ satisfied: “A man,” Bishooan said with admiration, “who can wait until they are private to let his cock-warmer show his admiration is truly worthy to negotiate with.”

Chakotay cast Paris a _see-what-I-meant?_ look. _Oh, yeah_ , Paris thought. _You were right_. Didn’t do anything for his cock, which was not interested in the negotiations, but was mighty interested in the sight of Chakotay’s beautiful mouth forming the necessary words. And, he had to admit, Chakotay was right about the rest, too: if they’d gone ahead, Paris would have felt damn used afterward. Sexually satisfied down to his toes, but used. _But just wait till I get you home_.

Which, finally, he did. As they stepped out of the shuttle, Janeway hailed them.

“Not as much as we need,” Chakotay said exhaustedly, “but more than we have.”

Paris could practically hear her smile. “Good work.”

 _Yes_ , Paris admitted, _good work_. Because it _was_ good work. Dilithium; both of them out of there with reputations intact; no morning-after regrets. Really good work. He watched with pride as the dilithium was unloaded, looked happily at Chakotay.

Who looked at him at just that instant.

For a minute they stared at each other. Then Chakotay blushed, smiled, looked down at the padd Baytart had just handed him. Looked back.

Damn, but the man was gorgeous. Paris remembered the full lips on his, the heat from Chakotay’s cock under his fingers. Remembered, too, the searing moment when all he wanted to do was strip and be fucked fucked fucked.

His mouth dried as Chakotay sidled over, looked at him, glanced around to see that they were alone.

“What if the stalwart commander invited the attractive lieutenant to his quarters for dinner around 1800 hours?” he murmured.

“It’s ‘loyal,’ ” Paris said. “It’s the _loyal_ lieutenant. And he’d say ‘yes.’ ”

A smile kindled in the dark eyes. “Well, the lieutenant I’m looking at is more than just loyal—he’s pretty fucking _great_ -looking; and, frankly, the Commander’s not sure he can wait until din—”

**And, somewhere else in the universe, a pouty Q grumbles about bald Starfleet captains oblivious to the charms of omnipotent beings, and stealthily folds time back several minutes, to make another try. And— _triomphe!_ **

_Yes_ , Paris admitted, _good work_. Because it _was_ good work. Dilithium; both of them out of there with reputations intact; no morning-after regrets. Really good work. He watched with pride as the dilithium was unloaded, looked happily at Chakotay.

Chakotay looked down at the padd Baytart had just handed him. Damn, but he looked tired. And fucking gorgeous. _Got you home_ , Paris thought happily, _and now I’m going to seduce you good_.

Paris loitered until they were alone in the shuttle bay. Chakotay looked up at him as he sidled over.

“About what happened at dinner—” Paris began.

“I think it needn’t be mentioned in my report,” Chakotay said briskly.

That hadn’t been what he wanted to talk about. “Okay,” Paris said.

“It needn’t be mentioned in your report, either, lieutenant.” Chakotay turned his back, started to leave.

“Why not?” The words left Paris’s mouth before his brain could shape them. “Too embarrassed?”

Chakotay froze. His back straightened. When he turned, he had that psycho-Maquis look that Paris had seen in his eyes their first days in the Delta Quadrant. Oohhh, shit.

“I was _thinking_ , Lieutenant Paris, of your _reputation_. I was concerned about your _pride_. I was trying to keep you from being _humiliated_ in the _official records_.” He kept his voice low, but it could have sliced through duranium.

“Or maybe you just don’t want anybody to know how you reacted.” He regretted the words the instant they were out of his mouth.

Chakotay’s face flushed an ugly color. “I reacted,” he said, “the way anybody would have with someone with—” He cast a contemptuous eye up and down Paris’s body. “—your depth of experience.”

It was like being punched. “I seem to recall,” Paris said icily, “you showed a pretty impressive _depth of experience_ yourself.”

For a minute, he thought Chakotay was going to sock him. The Commander’s face closed up; his fists clenched at his sides. Then he turned on his heel.

Paris bit down on some choice parting words.

But then Chakotay did the unexpected thing. Instead of leaving the bay, he barked, “Computer: seal hatches; sensors off”—which was just about the scariest sentence Paris could have heard, given the present mood; and then Chakotay turned and snarled, “What the hell do you want from me?”

“ _Respect!_ ” Adrenaline sang through Paris’s body as Chakotay advanced; he readied himself to take a punch—or give one.

“ ‘ _Respect?_ ’ Why the hell should I _respect_ you?” Shit; he was coming in close, crowding Paris, acting the big bruiser.

“Because I’ve earned it, Chakotay! I’m the best fucking pilot on this ship! I’ve hauled her out of every disaster you’ve gotten us into. I’ve certainly saved _your_ ass often enough. I’ve kept my word in some pretty bad places, and I’ve earned the right to some fucking respect.”

Chakotay snorted. “And you’re still playing ‘golden boy.’ You still think you deserve every damn privilege there is, because you’re a pilot. Because you’re the Captain’s special pet. Because you can smile or charm or fuck your way out of trouble. And you’re still screwing every woman in sight.”

“Jealous?” The word was out of Paris’s mouth before he knew it was in his brain. “Jealous of _me?_ ” And he felt heat rising. “Or—or jealous of _them?_ ” His voice sounded rough.

Chakotay looked startled; and then, shit oh shit, the look in his eyes shifted pretty damn quickly to lust—shifted so fast, Paris knew it had been there all along, that Chakotay had been trying to ignore it all along. Paris’s mouth dried. They stared into each other’s eyes for a long, hot moment.

“My quarters,” Chakotay growled. “Nineteen hundred hours. Find out.” And he left.

Well, shit— _that_ was romantic. Paris’s hands were shaking. He felt limp. But not all over: there was a part of him that was very un-limp indeed. Nineteen hundred hours. Find out. _Shit_.

So, there he was at nineteen hundred hours; and when the door opened, there was Chakotay, in civilian clothes. Looking a little green.

Paris’s eyes met his, and suddenly the air seemed to heat. Paris watched the color rise in Chakotay’s face as the warmth rose in Chakotay’s eyes.

“I’m finding out,” Paris said.

Chakotay’s mouth quirked. “The one time,” he said, “you actually fucking listen to me.”

Well, shit—they were back to that. Paris turned. “I’m not playing this—”

Chakotay’s hand on his arm stopped him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just keep putting my foot right into it when it comes to you, don’t I?”

 _Yeah; you do_. Paris let Chakotay tug him into the cabin, stood right beside the door as it closed.

They both stood there a minute. Chakotay looked jumpy.

 _Get this out of the way_ , Paris’s brain said clearly. _Then you can fuck him and go home_. “What the hell is it with you?” he said. “Commander,” he added.

Chakotay blinked. “It’s just ‘Chakotay’ here,” he said.

“Well, then, what the hell _is_ it with you?” Paris said. “ _Chakotay_.” Damn; his voice was shaking with hurt.

Chakotay looked stricken. “I—” he said. He took a breath. “I— Damn it, Tom. I can’t seem to get myself past our … history.”

Oh, great. “Then why the _hell_ did you invite me here?”

“You keep … catching me off guard.” Chakotay’s eyes were softer than Paris had ever seen them. “You keep reminding me of— You know,” he said with the air of a man taking a plunge, “the moment I saw you, I wanted you. You were brash and unsure of yourself and talented as hell and damned eager to please somebody you could trust. Of course, you were _drunk_ as shit. I’ve always tried not to take advantage, though in your case—” The warmth was coming back into his eyes at the memory. “—I was ready to make an exception. But you were Starfleet. And back then I wouldn’t have put it past them to publicly cashier out one of their own to plant him in the Maquis.”

“Oh, I did _that_ all by myself.” Paris felt the old pain rising.

“I know,” Chakotay said. “Now. But _then_ I was just mad at everything—especially myself. I let myself get cut off from my heritage; and I let my father get killed; and—” His mouth twisted wryly. “—I’d just generally managed to fuck up everything that mattered.”

Paris’s jaw dropped. _Chakotay_ feeling like a fuck-up?

“So there _you_ were,” Chakotay was saying. “You’d had everything, and—shit, Tom, you _were_ every damn thing I wanted in a Maquis warrior. In a lover. And I couldn’t even trust you. And then … you let yourself get caught—”

 _Now, WAIT a minute_. “I didn’t _let_ myself get captured!” Paris snarled.

“Well, it sure looked like it from _this_ angle!” Chakotay’s voice had hardened.

“That piece of shit you had me flying didn’t help!”

“I thought you could fly any damn thing in the galaxy. Isn’t that what you _told_ me?”

They glared at each other.

“What the hell _else_ was I supposed to believe?” Chakotay hissed. “How the hell was I supposed to believe you hadn’t betrayed us? betrayed _me?_ ”

But he didn’t just look mad, he looked … hurt. As hurt as Paris felt. He took a deep breath. “I didn’t betray you,” he murmured, looking deep into the deep eyes. “I _wouldn’t_ betray you.”

Deep, angry breath. “Well, you sure were doing your best when I found you on _Voyager_.”

“You didn’t— Nobody helped me. You _said_ I was part of the team—I could be part of the team. But you didn’t— I got captured, and that was just fucking _it_. Prison. Nobody. No help at all!”

Chakotay looked aghast. Then he looked uncomfortable, ashamed. “We couldn’t— I’m so sorry. They had us on the run. I couldn’t do a damn thing. Shit, Tom, I’m so fucking sorry. I thought….” His voice trailed off.

Paris let the silence stretch. “You thought, What the hell—Starfleet once is Starfleet forever. Admiral’s son—why the hell _wouldn’t_ he betray the Maquis? Why wouldn’t he just get welcomed back into the bosom of Starfleet?” Deep breath, to quell the shaking in his voice. “You thought wrong, Chakotay.”

“I’m sorry.” Chakotay’s mouth had softened. The fingertips of one hand slid over the back of Paris’s fist, gentle, tentative. “I’m sorry, Tom.”

And, shit, he seemed to mean it. Paris felt the hurt and anger beginning to seep out. But how the hell did they get to bed from _here?_

They were about 15 centimeters apart, swaying closer. The look in Chakotay’s eyes; the brush of his fingers. The heat from that solid body. That kind of mixture could make a guy feel drunk.

Paris brought his mouth close to Chakotay’s ear. “So,” he murmured, “we gonna fuck, or what?”

Explosion of Chakotay’s laugh. They leaned into each other. Chakotay’s hand took Paris’s; he nuzzled Paris’s neck. “Shit, Tom,” he said. “Smooth line like that—no wonder the ladies can’t resist you.”

Paris grinned. Oh my god, had anyone’s skin ever smelled so good?

“I’m kind of … wound up, though,” Chakotay murmured. “I don’t jump as fast as I used to from ‘fuck you’ to ‘fuck me.’ ”

Paris laughed shakily. “I don’t either,” he admitted. “You know, I wanted you the minute I saw you. I took one look at you in that crappy little bar, and I was ready to drop my pants and bend right over the table.”

Chakotay grinned. “As I recall, there were three Nausicaans and half a dozen Klingons there who probably would have made a beeline for your ass. I’d’ve had to fight ’em off.” A spark of lust and mischief. “I’d’ve won, too.”

Paris ran the tip of his tongue along Chakotay’s lower lip. Delicious. He sucked on that lip for an exquisite second or two; and then Chakotay put a hand on Paris’s back and drew him in for long, languid, thorough, knee-rattling kiss. Paris was dizzy at the end of it. Chakotay was gasping air.

“There were,” Paris murmured, starting on Chakotay’s ear lobe, “some Vulcans there, too. If I remember right.”

Chakotay’s moan turned his knees to water. Chakotay ran his mouth over Paris’s neck, clutched his ass in a way both possessive and promising.

“They’d’ve—” Chakotay groaned as Paris’s hand found his crotch. “—just probably have taken—” His gasp made Paris’s hips jerk. “—notes.”

“Okay.” Paris tried to focus. “You better fuck me now, or it’s over.”

Chakotay grinned, made a sudden movement that stripped Paris’s shirt from his body and left it halfway across the room. “Made the jump, huh?”

“Oh, yeah.” Paris started walking him backward toward the bed. _Damn_ , it was great: a good, hard fuck.

Chakotay grinned wider. “Giving orders, huh?”

“ _Oh_ , yeah.” Paris did some stripping of his own. Chakotay’s shirt landed somewhere.

“I’m not fucking you, Paris.” Chakotay’s hands undid Paris’s trousers, jerked them down far enough for Chakotay to grab a double handful of Paris’s ass.

Paris kissed him. “You’re not?”

“Huh uh.” Chakotay stopped. “I want to see your face as you surrender completely to my amazing talent.” He grinned as Paris undid his trousers, yanked them down.

“Shit,” Paris said, putting his hand on that hot, thick cock, “I’d rather surrender completely to your amazing cock. Why the _hell_ ,” he said, falling to his knees, “didn’t you just fuck me when we first met?” And he slipped his mouth over the head.

For a delirious minute he sucked with happy abandon, hearing Chakotay keening above him, feeling fingers in his hair, working his own cock with a frantic hand. Nothing had ever felt more perfect.

“Don’t.” Chakotay’s thumb worked its way into Paris’s mouth; for a second, he sucked it, too. “ _Don’t_ ,” in a breathless gasp.

Paris pulled away. Chakotay’s face was almost savage as he bent down, pulled Paris up, shoved him onto the bed.

Okay, so— Paris lifted his feet, started taking off one boot as Chakotay yanked on the other. Their hands met at Paris’s waistband; the trousers and underwear landed someplace.

Stripping off Chakotay’s pants was less complicated, but more distracting: no shoes, but, ohgod, there was that delicious cock at mouth level, just begging to be licked. Chakotay made a little sound of frustration and trampled off his trousers.

He dove for Paris, grabbed him at the waist, hauled him further onto the bed. Paris worked his way backward, eyes on that gorgeous cock. He lifted his knees, spread them wide. He would burst any minute.

“Ohgod, fuck me,” he moaned. “Just _fuck_ me. Right up the ass. _Hard_.”

“ _No_.” Chakotay’s face was adamant. He slid between Paris’s legs, thrust his cock against Paris’s. Paris arched helplessly, wrapped his legs around Chakotay’s waist, thrust, thrust against Chakotay’s belly. “Not until … I can do it … _right_.”

Oh, right, wrong, it didn’t fucking matter any more. The world had shrunk to those hot cocks sliding against each other, to Chakotay’s grunts in Paris’s ear, to the whimpering noises that seemed to be coming from Paris’s mouth. He grabbed something with both hands, hung on.

A moment of riding.

And then Paris felt everything surge into his cock for a blinding explosion—every damn thing: Chakotay’s growl, the smell of hot sweat and hotter semen, the taste of salty skin, the heat, the heat—

His fucking fury that this sweetbastard sonofabitch could be so fucking stubborn. The deep-rooted pain of everyone’s mistrust.

It all must have been in there, because—well, it was gone when he came back into himself, gasping, clutching—

“Ow,” Chakotay said.

“Sorry,” Paris said, letting go of his hair. “ _Shit!_ ”

“Sorry,” Chakotay said. He kissed Paris’s shoulder, worked himself off.

Paris looked. No blood. “A biter, huh?” he said, grinning at Chakotay.

Who blushed. “I kind of,” he said, “forget myself.” He kissed the marks again.

“I don’t mind biters,” Paris said. “As long as it’s friendly.”

“Oh,” Chakotay said, “it’s friendly.”

They grinned at each other, gasping. Damn—flushed, mouth soft with kissing—Chakotay post-coital was a sight worth waiting for.

Chakotay’s fingers found the side of Paris’s face, traced the curve of his cheek, the line of his jaw, did it again, again; his eyes were tender. Paris’s heart stumbled. Had anyone ever looked at him like that? Migod, he had to get out of here, or he was lost. He had to get out of here _now_.

“I guess I better leave,” he heard himself say.

Chakotay didn’t even flinch, just kept looking, caressing. “Why?” he asked. “I know your schedule. You’re not on duty tomorrow.”

 _Self preservation_ , Paris thought desperately.

“Besides,” Chakotay said in a low, silky voice, “I know you really want to stay.”

Oh, god, _now_. He needed to get out of here _now_.

“And,” Chakotay said huskily, “ _I_ really want you to stay.”

 _Nowwwww_ —

But he leaned into that caressing hand, turned his head; and put a kiss into the palm. A sharp intake of breath from Chakotay. Paris couldn’t look. Chakotay slid his fingers over Paris’s mouth, lingering. It was a caress; it was a kiss; it was more than he’d counted on when he walked in here.

It was more than he needed.

It was just what he wanted.

He turned to Chakotay, who slid his fingers to knead the back of Paris’s neck. In Chakotay’s eyes were mingled tenderness and amusement. And exasperation. “Damn it, Tom,” he said, “how much time did we waste?”

“How,” Paris said, “do you want that calculated?”

 _Smart ass_ , Chakotay’s look said; _but MY smart ass_ , his fingers murmured.

“Now, if we’d done _that_ ,” Paris went on, “when we first met, I bet even the Vulcans would’ve lined up to enjoy your considerable talents.”

Chakotay’s grinned a _thanks_. “I’m not trying it with Tuvok,” he said.

Bantering. Who the hell would have thought they’d be lying here after sex, bantering?

Chakotay leaned over and kissed him. “You’ve got the prettiest damn mouth,” he said.

“And I can’t wait to see _your_ gorgeous mouth wrapped around my cock. But then you better fuck me up the ass so hard I see stars, or, damn it, Chakotay,” he said in mock earnestness, “I’m reporting you for sexual teasing of a subordinate.”

“How can I say no, when you ask so nicely?”

A grin; a kiss. Chakotay moved in to cradle him.

Froze when he saw Paris’s face.

“What is it?” Chakotay murmured.

“Nothing.” But, “I— A little sudden, a little … soon, I guess.” Paris looked into the gentle eyes. “It’s just— Are we … okay with each other? I couldn’t stand it if you went back to despising me, Chakotay. Anything could go wrong and you could go right back—”

“ _That’s_ not going to happen.” The warmth in that fervent voice, in that tender gaze made some long-tangled knot inside Paris start to loosen. “That is _not_ going to happen. You’ve been too much to me.” A smile started at the corners of the delicious mouth. “Every possibility branches off into yet another universe, and in every one of them that is _not_ going to happen.”

Held by that gaze, Paris felt himself start to relax. His fingers found warm, smooth skin and began to caress it.

“I’m sure,” said Chakotay, “there’ll be times you’ll just annoy the hell out of me, make me want to bust you right down to ensign. And, you put yourself in danger for me again the way you did with that cannibal, and I _will_. But despising you—there’s no way I can ever do that, Tom. I can’t imagine any possibility that I could ever do that, in this universe or any of those other ones branching off of it.”

Damn. That silky skin, that stubborn uprightness. That bone-melting smile. Paris’s fingers moved, and Chakotay sighed pleasure. A long, searching kiss that left him breathless.

And content.

And wanting more.

**Chakotay grinned at him. “Come on,” he said, “don’t you think a slightly bossy Starfleet commander and a smart-ass lieutenant can make it work in this universe or any other that’s out there?”**

And, “You bet,” said Paris, grinning right back.

**Author's Note:**

> My, but this one was a long time finishing! The movie _Closing Doors_ was a C/P-writer's dream, with the pivotal moment being Tom Paris making/not making the judgment error that affects the rest of his life. (My referring to Tom Paris by his first name in one story  & his last name in the other is a nod to the two hair styles used to separate the two storylines in the movie.) The few stories I've read which attempt alternative versions of Paris's life after Caldik Prime seem to have assumed that he'd get over the accident and be okay; I wanted to take into account the fact that this natural-born pilot was at the helm for the deaths of three people.
> 
> Actually, my alternate Paris turned out more emotionally scarred than the one we saw on the screen—possibly because he has no one else to blame for every mess he finds himself in. The _Q ex machina_ device was irresistible—and in keeping with the theme of the arbitrariness of the universe. Seska makes her move earlier in the alternate line than she did in the show: I figured that Chakotay's interest in Paris—and the recognition that Chakotay thus was allying himself even more closely with the Federation and would no longer listen to her—would have led her to make contact with the Kazon earlier than she does on the show. Wow, what fun to do the romance in the alternate story, blissfully free of that history of betrayal  & mistrust!
> 
> Some of the incidents in the non-alternate story are from bits and pieces on my hard drive: the kidnapped-crew incident was originally an adventure for the first-season Doctor; the Ekaishaan may show up later as another people, since I didn't use a third of the stuff I had for them. Poor Samtha! She's me: I needed a victim and didn't want to kill off anybody actually in the show.
> 
> Since I wrote each story separately, I was really surprised to see how much there was that lined up! For example, there are two neck rubs nearly opposite each other that were a complete surprise!


End file.
